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=} A New Republican Army {=
"So?" The single question was poised with both a burning curiosity and the soft whisper that brought with it the impression of a particularly sordid, and thus more interesting, bit of news that ought to be shared now, right away, here for all involved to hear at the lunch table. That said, "all" involved Rocha, Soraia and Miriam, who had come from the steam and heat of Beléms attic laundries and gone through the fires of the Mondist invasion, only to be shipped half across the globe to Korea, only made the question ever more pressing. Not that Miriam was showing any sign of the pressure her two best friends were trying to direct her way, if anything she only grew ever more nonchalant as she cut a piece of her beef, merely raising a single eyebrow - only the twitching corners of her mouth giving away the amusement she felt at this direction.
On her left Rocha flicked the spoon from side to side, while Soraia was leaning forward on her right, shielding the trio from the other trainees, while doing her best to keep her friend shielded from the actual object of their curiosity. Not that they expected a psionic warrior woman from space to be stopped from eavesdropping as easily as their past employees. Still, they had their friend pinned and after a moment, the brunette put the cutlery down to flash her two friends a bright grin, humming out in a sweet sing-song a simple: "Comfy."
Banging her fist on the table - an action that led to the aluminium spoon getting catapulted through the air, before clinking across Soraias lunch - Rocha ignored the curious glances from the other trainees and instead hissed out lowly: "Don't be sassy with us. We saw the Axis Instructor heading into her room too. Don't tell me you three…"
"...she sings in her mind. In her sleep. It's distracting. I was told.", Miriam replied with a small roll of her eyes, before winking "...also a terrible cuddler. Seems to be more of an Astarti tradition if you ask me. The instructor was far more…comfy~. Very considerate.", the last words were said with the kind of wide eyed and tongue curling charm, that left all three women laughing and holding onto their benches, uncaring of the confused gazes sent their way, the achievements presented on their tunics enough to ward off any of the new recruits curiosity.
Wiping away their tears, they grinned at one another and Rocha and snatched her spoon back to dramatically point it at another back - and one with far less ability to just listen in beyond the audible: "Honestly? I think our Moralian instructor would be good in such an… exercise to improve resilience and collective experience."
"You know she's wearing those thigh high riding boots again?" "Wouldn't you if you had legs like that?", Rocha sniped back before Soraia could do more than point, her friend nudging her side good naturedly, before continuing: "Just saying that she looks like she would have all the comfyness of a pillar and would still shout FIREPOWER with both eyes closed."
While her friends giggled, Rocha merely grinned back "What can I say: She clearly got the right kind of idea!", which elected another set of giggles from her friends, who poked her sides from both sides calling out: "The right kind of idea - or the right kind of boots to forget about Pablo?!", poked Miriam from the side, the mention enough to make Rocha back off with a complicated expression, that finally ended in a sullen look - to which the brunette could only sigh softly. "I am sorry. It was a mean thing of him…"
"..to say that he wasn't interested in a girl that could outshoot him any day of the year?", Rocha ended tersely, before shaking off the pitying looks of her friends "It's all the same. No one wants to marry the washer girls with the scrubbed off hands and no one wants to get home with a girl they were at war with. They all want the sweethearts from the villages and not the ones who saw them cry themselves to sleep in the trenches, it's just…"
"A question of FIREPOWER!" Miriam now shouted, mirroring her friend's earlier action by slamming her hand onto the table, falling into a playful mimicry of their instructor's lecture: "Accurate firepower is the key to combat performance. The infantry knows only two modes: either it is attacking or preparing to attack!In order to prevail, the infantry has to attack, specifically putting itself in a position where its firepower neutralizes the enemy threat. Any resistance from the enemy, in the form of firing, is immediately overwhelmed by effective counter-fire."
Before Rocha could do more than turn, Soraia was grasping her right hand and speaking, while Miriam went for the left: "Thus the primary focus of our studies is the platoon attack! Motivation and Affection across each of its section, form the basis of the cohesion that determines the firepower it can bring to bear! And thus…."
With both of her hands held tightly, Rocha couldn't help but grin, getting her Elan back: "...the acme of military skill is not to fire at all: for this means the infantry has gained a position of superiority in which its potential firepower acts as a deterrent of unquestionable superiority. Thus…"
All three leaned forward, arms slung around another and new NCO epaulettes tapping against another as they laughed and called out with a return to the start of the conversation: "...cuddlepiles rise affection and thus cohesion. Cohesion determines the ability to bring firepower to bear and thus cuddlepiles are firepower!"
A few tables further away from the trio, Captain Taynara of the Ubirajara, 3rd Amazonian Jungle Fighter Brigade was sharing her lunch with the newly promoted Captain Roberto Camarg - between the two of them Antonio Dutra was nervously fingering his Lt. marks and doing his best to sink into his chair. If anything he was feeling utterly out of his depth as the two decorated officers exchanged gossip and more serious matters over their dinner table. Still, for the moment the nearby commotion had captured their attention and the Amazonian, in the truest sense of the word, jungle fighter slightly tilted her head towards the trio: "Yours?"
Simply shaking his head Camarg hummed "C(a) Jockeys - overgrown infantry. So let's say cousins of ours. What's your opinion on today's soup Chef?", the nickname had stuck since Korea and throughout his promotion, making Antonio reply without any further thought: "A little overcooked, the garlish should have been crushed not sliced. The lentils haven't been soaked before, not bad, but…"
Catching himself he felt a little colour rising into his cheeks, throwing his superior a betrayed look: right in front of the other captain to boot. But Camarg only continued to eat, only pausing for a moment to explain: "Lt. Dutra was a Culinary Student, did true wonders in Siberia for our platoon and was with the Partisans before it. Well, he didn't do badly and he has a finished university degree, thus…", he raised his spoon ceicling-ward for a moment and spun it, before returning to eating, the bit in the middle of Antonios guts only colder as he felt where this was going. Looking shamefaced towards his superiors, he didn't come up with any audible excuse, didn't know what there was to explain. It had seemed so simple on paper: soldiers bounded together over joint experiences, especially hardships quickly created bonds that were necessary to keep them motivated in battle.
At first it has seemed ingenious: forty soldiers given to him for training, some trained in the revolutionary paramilitaries like him, some drilled in the blind devotion of the Divine Army and many given their first pair of good boots by the Siberian Horde; and each had been issued with a gas mask. A march in formation, around the camp, four aligned columns, he in front and they behind. An exercise in coordination and movement, same speed, same distances, given the certain something with the masks.
Of course there was mucus, there was fog in the lenses, someone started vomiting and before he could stop it that timeless symbol of discipline, regimentation, and esprit de corps had turned into anything but. Instead of a joint collective organism, he was suddenly marching in front of a wild melee, stumbling and falling bodies, half a dozen angry dialects and the sinking realization that he had messed up.
If only the armed forces weren't desperate to get new officers. If only he hadn't volunteered for this. He could handle being shot at, but thinking that 'his' soldiers would be united in doubting his capabilities was….
"Soldiers love training.", cut through his self-pity, Captain Carmags words still light and without any judgement, merely sharing an anecdote as he continued: "It allows them to show their capabilities, both as an individual and as a unit. Not just firing range exercises, but actual maneuvers: training to clear bunkers, rolling out of a Manatee in the middle of a river, working on their anti-MS bolas. The kind of thing that leaves them out of breath, sweaty and smelling like smoke and cordite."
At this point Captain Taynara couldn't help but snort, shaking her head lightly as she cut in gravely: "You know that any modern equipment we get doesn't use those old propellants anymore, if anything people will think you are one of us B-Types who signed up before the war. But Roberto is right: accomplishments and skills of arms are good ways to fuse a unit together. Still, you need to give the soldiers time to bound and come to appreciate one another outside of the training as well."
With a glance towards the louder table, Camarg grinned before humming innocently: "Cuddlepiles?"
The Amazonian didn't spare him another glance as she continued: "I have come to see that joint activities are greatly enjoyed by my soldiers. Both Music and Dance are valued skill in my home district and I have organised performances of both often during the campaigns in the jungle - and all soldiers can learn a few steps or the drums and partake. It keeps them grounded and their minds free to engage in more than just the use of weaponry."
Reaching over her firm and callused hands gave Antonia a small clap on the shoulder "Suffice to say that no one gets born as an officer. Not even all of us went to a fancy university as you two - well, at least not till here. But from what I have been told soldiers are like students: they are nervous and afraid as long as they don't know their place and they want to be recognized, appreciated and know that the world around them has an order in which they can fit into. Give it a try and you will find this responsibility rewarding - no matter if you end up commanding a field kitchen or a mechanized assault platoon."
The door clicked shut with a heavy tone, falling into its lock with a finality that made Hugo flinch in the chair he was offered, his comrades having left him alone in the office of the Special Republican Commissar Lívia Ito. Between her reading glasses and the firm bun her graying hair was styled into she reminded him painfully of his grade school teacher and the traditional heavy overcoat of her station only set her more apart from the new experimental uniforms that populated the halls of the Higher Leadership Academy of Serrea. In her rested the authority to send him off to be "gone Blooey" and this realisation made cold sweat run down his neck, a fear greater than when he had commanded his guys into standing up to the Siberan raid on the supply convoy.
Uncaring of his feelings, Commissar Ito beaconed for him to take a seat, the plush padding off the offered chair daring to drag him towards carelessness and even relaxation, when his belly felt like it was doing somersaults and both of his hands were digging into the armrest. His cheeks were blotched, his mind swaying between an utter anger that made him want to throttle the man responsible and a hopelessness that was threatening to consume him whenever he let go of his anger. Instead he was simply met with a neutral and careful expression, followed by the soft words: "Sgt. Reis, are you aware of the incident that necessitates this interview? And the power this gives me over your fate?"
Trembling and forcing himself to meet her eyes, Hugo said with as much firmness as he could put into his face, pushing his chest outwards to emphasize the fresh ribbons for his service in Korea: "I merely enforced the discipline of the Republican Army as I saw necessary."
A tight frown played over the commissar's lips as she raised one of the papers before her: "Even if this was your intent, the corporal punishment of soldiers by their officers hasn't been part of the reglement since the days of the great revolution. Furthermore by the account of thirty eyewitnesses you had at first hurled abuse at Gunner Menezes, before striking him twice across the face, breaking off at least one tooth and sending him to the ground."
"The transgression of Gunner Menezes…", Hugo set up, only for the commissar to interrupt him with a cold: "...was surely not of any military nature, but simply in him having celebrated his good fortune of having passed the citizen exam the day prior and having gone into town. By your leave if the documentation is to be believed."
"He had the gall to appear too late for the inspection and to carry the flag of the Republic around his unwashed neck!", it burst out of Hugo, his fists tightening as he envisioned the scene again, the face of the toothy grinning traitor of a CanMexican briefly overlapping with other faces in other uniforms grinning back at him in the middle of the night. They couldn't be trusted. They could not be believed, they couldn't be…
"Sgt. Reis. Sgt. Reis!", it burst out of Commissar Ito, regaining his attention as her own posture relaxed a little and she gave him a hard to place look, before opening her stack of papers and pulling out an already pre-filled form. Intoning formally: "By standing Order 62 of the Amazonian Republican Expedition Force, in accordance with the powers invested in me as commissar of the Republic by the Divisional board…"
Each word was like a stab into Hugos pride, only the padding of the chair and the tight grip of his hands onto the handrests keeping him upright, his vision starting to get spotty as his verdict was getting read out.
"...in light of your exemplary and courageous service. Which has clearly left its mark. I hereby sign the reclassification of Sgt. Hugo Reis to the Service of Supplies at Belém. You will be given mandatory sessions with Seraphim Therapists. Any transfer to a fighting unit will be reliant on their clearance."
It hit him like a punch in the guts now: this was it - the shipwreck of his short but illustrious career, blazed through the jungles and the icy waters of the Yalu. He was damaged goods. And above all he could only stare back at the compassionate look of the commissar, who so reminded him of the teacher who always had high hopes for him too.
"Take Heart Sergeant Reis, the Republic values its defenders. And just like you had a duty to take care of your subordinates, the Republic will take care of you. See this as a … change in perspectives before a renewed deployment."
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